


Into Deep Ends

by allotrie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allotrie/pseuds/allotrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's search for a flatmate turns up more than he ever could've expected.  When John Watson enters his life for the second time, the surprise connection they share may have them both in over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The rating reflects plans for later chapters, though I'll probably add more tags as the story progresses. I hope to update about once a week, though life is busy right now and may slow things a bit. The story is unbeta'd and unbritpicked, so corrections are appreciated.

_2003_

The club is a bass line pounding through the room, the movement of bodies pressed close together, the heady smell of pheromones in the air. It's an expectation - a promise - the scent of omegas mere hours from their heat and alphas interested in what's on offer. It's the most instinctual kind of dance, the search for a mate, if only for a few nights of hormone-fueled lust.

It's exactly what John needs.

John is at the bar, trying very hard to gauge if the pretty brunette alpha three stools down might be persuaded to let him come home with her. She smiles in his direction, second time since John's arrived, and his decision's made. He downs the last of his drink and moves to get up and say hello.

"Best not,” says a voice to John’s side. “She's married. And with a pregnant omega at home." 

John turns to find a dark-haired alpha nearby leaning casually back against the bar, his gaze not on John or the brunette, but scanning the crowds on the dance floor. The alpha is handsome, in an odd sort of way John can't quite figure out. Maybe it's the slim, languid line of his body in his posh tailored clothes. Maybe it's how unaffected he seems, no sign of the pheromone-fueled desperation typical in the club. He smells like all the alphas here do - the low arousal brought on by all the omegas near heat - but that's it. He is something set apart.

"Do you know her?" John asks.

"No, but I don't need to; it's obvious. She slipped her ring into her purse when she walked in, you can see the tan line on her finger even in this horrible lighting. Like her lack of ring would fool anyone with a nose. Get closer and you can smell her mate all over her. Pregnant omega female, probably five months along, judging by the fit of the shirt she's clearly put on by mistake. Simple.” The alpha turns his head, his pale eyes looking John over for a bare second before he asks, "Field medic or doctor?"

"What?"

"You," says the alpha. "You're obviously military with medical training. Field medic or doctor?"

"Doctor. How-?"

"Doctor, of course. So, army doctor, on leave, returned from your...first tour three weeks ago, a month at most. You went off you issued suppressants as soon as you arrived home. Maybe you experience side effects, more likely you just enjoy the sex. Time enough for a few heats before you go back abroad. No long-term partner, not since you joined up. And so here you are."

"How in the world do you know all that?"

"I _observed_. Easily. You're hardly a mystery. No more complicated than the other idiots here." John sputters at the insult, but the alpha waves it off and says, "Don't take it personally; practically everyone's an idiot."

"Aren't you lot meant to be buttering up omegas? Not insulting them."

"What? Oh, mating. Dull. No, not what I'm here for."

"Then what are you here for?" John asks, curious and maybe a little disappointed.

The alpha suddenly straightens, staring at the club's entrance with an alarming intensity. "What just walked through the door. Doctor, good evening."

The strange alpha dashes off, cutting through the thick crowd more deftly than John would've thought possible. He loses sight of the man after only a few moments.

John gives a mental shrug, resigns the conversation to just one of the odd perils of living in London. He turns back to the bar and signals for another drink.

* * *

A couple more drinks and a few hours later, and John's heat is starting to creep up on him. His skin feels tight and flushed; arousal pools low in his gut, the sensation building steadily as the time draws nearer. He's already wet, just a little; that familiar feeling in his arse is a delicious sort of anticipation. He hasn't got long, not if he's to make it back home before he's mad with want.

John has no alpha yet, though several have approached him through the night. They've all been charming - they smell lovely and smile sweetly and whisper hot in John's ear - but none have felt right. John turns them down with apologetic smiles and hasty excuses as, for some reason he can't explain, he hopes for something more.

Another rejected alpha retreats, and John thinks about kicking himself. This was meant to be a nice night out. Find a willing alpha, have a few days of no-strings fun. But what earlier had felt like a good idea has soured somewhat during the course of the night, and John isn't sure why. All he knows is that it's late - too late - and it's time to resign himself to the less exciting prospect of a heat taken care of with toys.

John leaves the club alone, and he pauses as he steps out into a cool spring night. The fresh air is a shock after hours in the club; away from the crowd putting out pheromones, there's no more strong scent, not like inside, and John takes a deep breath to steady himself before walking home.

Except...there is a scent. A familiar one.

The dark haired alpha stands next to John on the pavement, close enough that John can feel his warmth.

"Look over there." The alpha gestures across the road.

John turns his gaze to where the alpha points. It's the brunette from before, and this time she's arguing with a woman who sports an obvious baby bump. As they watch, the pregnant woman slaps the brunette across the cheek and leaves, the brunette following not far behind.

John looks back to the dark haired alpha. "So you were right?"

"I usually am. You've not found a partner yet?" It's a question, but the alpha's tone makes it clear he already knows the answer.

"I haven't," John replies anyway.

"Good. We'll go to yours, then? You're only a half hour from being fully in heat and yours is closer."

"I thought you said mating's dull."

"Exceedingly. Doesn't matter. Less boring than the alternatives Let's go." The alpha takes John's wrist in a loose hold and tugs lightly as he starts down the street.

John pulls away from the alpha. "Oy! I haven't said yes. Don't assume I'll just come along."

The alpha rolls his eyes. "Pupils dilated, pulse elevated, breathing faster, all above pre-heat norms. And you unconsciously move closer to me - see, you're doing it now - just so you can smell me; you like my scent. You're attracted to me, you prefer a partner for your heats, and you've said no to everyone else. Of course you're saying yes."

"Christ, you're...you're an absolute nutter, is what you are," John says, all amusement and no venom, because John is nothing if not a nutter himself. "Yes, all right, I'm attracted to you. But what makes you think I'll let a madman I don't know follow me home?"

The alpha grins, predatory in all the good ways, and leans in close. "Because you like dangerous things."


	2. Chapter 2

_2010_

This is how Sherlock decides to get a flatmate:

(+) Someone to hoover/dust/clean/shop when Mrs Hudson can't be convinced.

(-) Dull. Distracting. Can't be bothered.

(+) Experimental test subject, if they don't notice. (They won't notice.)

(-) Odds of a long term arrangement near nil. Will have to repeat the flatmate search every 2-6 months.

(+) Mrs Hudson less likely to terminate the lease if a flatmate will be adversely affected.

(-) Not financially necessary.

(+) ...

Ad infinitum. No clear best option, and so the verdict is _might as well try_.

Sherlock sends a mass text: _Flatmate required. 221B Baker St. Referrals wanted. SH_

From: S. Donovan 20:17  
 _STOP TXTING ME U FREAK!!!_

From: M. Hooper 20:19  
 _Oh, r u moving again? Does that mean ur bringing the eyeballs back? Only my boss noticed them missing & hes a bit angry_

From: Lestrade 20:28  
 _Finally get kicked out of your flat? Wait, were u that fire on Montague St?!_

From: M. Stamford 20:33  
 _right, ill ask round. see u at the lab tmrrw mrng?_

* * *

The next afternoon, Mike Stamford walks into the lab with an old friend.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asks.

"Afghanistan. How did you...? Wait...it's _you_."

Well. That is unexpected.

Sherlock takes a better look at John Watson then. He knows the facts at a glance - army doctor, omega, psychosomatic limp, where he ran into Stamford and what he had for lunch - but he doesn't recognize the man. John certainly recognizes Sherlock, though. His eyes are wide with surprise, and there's something underneath it (embarrassment? confusion?) that Sherlock can't yet name.

"Hm, so you two know each other already then?" Stamford asks.

This brings John out of his surprised stupor; he shakes his head a little and says, "We've met. Sort of. Look, Mike, could you give us a mo?"

Stamford agrees, leaving the lab without asking the questions he clearly has. They're the same questions burning in Sherlock now.

When the lab door finally shuts, John says, "You don't remember me."

"No. Should I?"

"About seven years ago? We met in a club, god, I don't even remember the name..."

Oh, John is one of those. The ones who want things of him. The ones, like Molly, who pine. And what's worst is, he's given John a reason to do so. Seven years ago, an omega in a club - Sherlock recalls those days, the euphoria of the drugs and the seductive release of shared heats. And the inevitable _can I call you? will you stay?_ that turns into _get away from me you psycho so fast_. Interpersonal relationships. Messy. Hateful. This is why Sherlock had given up sex.

"We spent one of your heats together," Sherlock acknowledges. "Look, John, while I'm flattered you remember me, that was just one heat. You should know that I consider myself married to my work."

John shakes his head emphatically. "No, no, that's not...not what I'm saying. No. It's just, here..."

He shoves a hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a battered leather wallet (at least twenty years old, likely his father's). Out of the wallet, he takes a photo. Recently printed, judging by the sharpness of the corners when he gives it over. Sherlock looks.

The picture is of a young girl. Five years old or thereabouts, hair so dark it's nearly black. She's dressed for Christmas in a red sequined jumper, standing in front of a lit tree with a grin on her face. For the first time in many years, Sherlock’s hard drive stops spinning.

"What."

"That's Abby. It’s her birthday in a couple weeks; she’ll be six years old. She’s...well, she’s yours. Biologically speaking, that is. I was on birth control when we had sex, I swear I was, but that’s not one hundred percent, of course.” John shrugs.

Sherlock flicks his eyes over John again, absently notes the signs he missed before (inexpertly tied shoelaces, traces of glitter on his trousers, etc). There's always something. He looks back to the picture, at this small person he may have had a hand in making.

John continues, “I’m not looking for...just, I know I’ve sprung this on you. But I thought you should know. And there are things...I didn’t even find out your name, back then. She'll start asking about you someday, and I don't want to have to tell her I don't know. And your family medical history would help, if you can tell me. Things like that.”

John pauses, waits for a reply Sherlock doesn't give. Sherlock's mind is back online, buzzing down a dozen lines of thought. It’s plausible, alarmingly so, but Sherlock can list a plethora of other theories off the top of his head, though he’s strangely reluctant to give them voice while John stands next to him. Still, there's only one way to be sure.

“Sherlock Holmes," he finally answers.

“What?”

“My name: Sherlock Holmes.” He turns to grab his coat and wind his scarf around his neck. “Meet me tomorrow morning. Ten? Bring your daughter. Now I’ve got to dash, people to see. And I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Sherlock heads for the door.

“Wait! Meet you where?”

“221B Baker Street. Afternoon!”

* * *

"Sherlock! You have visitors!"

"Send them up, Mrs Hudson!" he calls from his place on the sofa. Two sets of footsteps on the stairs, one limping adult, one child. Right on time.

Sherlock observes from the corner of his eye as they walk in. John, cautious, now. Doesn't approach. Looks around the flat, an assessment - what can the room tell him about the alpha who fathered his child? He'll miss everything of importance, of course, but no matter, because there with him is the girl.

She clings to John's hand, more habit than shyness, it seems. She's smaller than Sherlock expected (too early to tell if she's inherited John's short stature), but she mirrors her father's curiosity. Sherlock can see a resemblance, perhaps, under childhood chubbiness and the mix of John’s DNA. Cheekbones, shape of the eyes, hair straight but the same shade as his own.

"Nice flat," John says.

"Hm? Oh, yes. Very. I've got a deal with the landlady, Mrs Hudson. Owes me a favor. Now, I assume you won't object to a DNA test? Over there, on the table, there's a kit, just take a cheek sample."

"Yes, of course. I understand, can't blame you." John limps over, takes the sample kit from the table, and seats himself in one of the armchairs. "Abby, this is Mr Holmes."

"Hello, Mr Holmes," she says with a practiced quality.

"It's Sherlock, please."

The girl wrinkles her nose. "That's a funny name."

"That's not very nice, Abby. You need to apologize."

She looks down and scuffs a foot against the carpet. "'M sorry I said your name's silly."

Sherlock waves it off. "Doesn't matter. My brother’s saddled with worse. Now, Doctor Watson?"

“Yes, all right,” John answers, as he guides Abby closer to take the sample.

Sherlock tunes out what comes next, Abby’s inquisitiveness and John’s gentle explanations that omit the messy details. Instead, for the first time since John handed him that photograph, Sherlock allows himself to wonder: _what if this_ is _his child_?

With no small amount of disgust, he thinks of the normal, the boring: school lunches and skinned knees, the crying and pleading and messes. The wake-up-breakfast-dress-school-home-homework-dinner-playtime-bed routines. _Awful_. Sherlock can think of little worse.

And yet, there is that niggling piece of his vast mind that is sure any child of his could not possibly be as dull as the masses. Potential genetic components of intelligence aside, she is very young still, and relatively unmarred by the pedestrian stupidity of those around her. Couldn’t he show her how to really _think_? Teach her before the idiots make her brain rot in telly and gossip and everything useless in this world? Not too late, not yet. It’s an intriguing prospect.

"How long before you have the results?" John says.

"Should be quick. Man owes me a favor." Sherlock sits up, grabs his mobile from where it lies next to his thigh. He shoots off a text to set that in motion.

"Discounted flat, quick paternity testing...do a lot of people owe you favors?"

"Enough,” Sherlock answers without looking back up at John. “It's preferable. More useful than when clients pay in cash."

"For a man looking for a flatmate, you don't seem that concerned with money," John says.

"I'm not. I'm concerned with the work. Leave the sample on the table. There’s a paper and pen there for your number; I’ll text you when I have the results.”

John does as he’s told, takes his daughter’s hand, and says, “All right. Well, I’ll see you soon then. C’mon, Abby.”

“Bye Mr Holmes.” She waves as she follows her father back down the stairs.

Sherlock doesn’t watch her go. Instead, while his mobile’s still in his hand, he pulls up the browser for a quick scan of the news sites. It takes a few moments of digging, but oh, there’s something worthy: _3rd Body Found in Apparent Poisoned Suicide...Detective Inspector Lestrade to give a briefing at noon_. Just the distraction he needs.

* * *

He loses himself in the case. Thoughts of John, the girl, the test, all of it trampled by the excitement of a mystery unfolding. That blissful forgetting doesn’t last long.

Sherlock is at the morgue, a quick word with Molly was all he needed to see the latest body while Lestrade still pretends the Met isn't incompetent. He has his fingers in the corpse's mouth when his mobile chimes with a text, earlier than he'd expected. With trepidation (useless emotion, ridiculous, he berates himself), he takes off his gloves and fishes the mobile out of his coat. One text. A two word answer.

* * *

To: John Watson 17:34  
 _Baker Street. Come if convenient._

To: John Watson 17:35  
 _If inconvenient, come anyway._

Mrs Hudson lets John in again, and judging by the wait, they’re making small talk. Likely she’s found out he’s a doctor, wants his medical opinion on her herbal soothers. More limping up the stairs - Sherlock’s convinced he can do something about that; an experiment for later - and then John is back, this time with concern.

“Sherlock? Everything okay? Your text sounded urgent." Sherlock turns from the window and tosses his mobile over; John reads from the screen, "Yes, conclusive. Is this the test results?"

"Quite."

"I was halfway across London, had to beg my ex-sister-in-law to babysit, and you called me all the way over here for something that could've waited for the morning?"

"You didn't have to rush over."

"Of course not." John sighs. "What do you want?"

"Want?"

"What do you want? You must want something, otherwise you could've just texted the results. So what is it?"

 _I’m not sure_ , Sherlock doesn't say. Instead, he asks, "Why didn't you terminate the pregnancy? Single omega, pregnant by an unknown alpha, bright military career ahead of you; it would've been the only logical choice."

"Not everyone's logical."

"Obviously. But why?"

"I dunno, really. I thought about it. Christ, I did. But suppose that was my only chance? I wanted kids, always have, but I was gone months at a time, planned on doing it my whole life. And I wasn't exactly meeting potential mates in the desert. And who'd want me as a mate now?" John looks ruefully at his cane, then continues, "The regulations had changed in the nineties, made it easier for omegas with families to serve. And my mum could take care of the baby while I was away. So I just...went ahead."

"Your mother died recently,” Sherlock says.

"Right after I was invalided. How'd you know?"

"Obvious. Stamford introduced you as a potential flatmate. You're looking for a flatshare and as you said earlier, you needed a babysitter. If your mother were fine, you'd need neither. If she were just ill, you'd only need the babysitter, not a flatmate. She cared for her granddaughter for years, she wouldn't turn you both out while she was alive. No, she's died, and you're not an only child. Even split of the inheritance between you and your sibling. You can't afford to buy out his half of your parents' house, not on an army pension. And he's still angry that you took his wife's side in the divorce; he won't do you any favors. No other extended family, none that you're close to, anyway, and so here you are. Bedsit and a babysitter."

"You got all that just from a couple things I said?"

"Child's play. Just like I know you're an army doctor, wounded in action, and with a psychosomatic limp. If you'd hand me your mobile, I'm sure I could deduce something more impressive."

"No, no, that's fine. Brilliant, really."

That’s...new. "You think so?"

"Yes. It's extraordinary."

Sherlock looks John over again. There’s something under this ordinary facade, something Sherlock saw seven years ago. Something he sees again now. He says, "Interesting. Usually people tell me to piss off."

"So is this what you do? I read your web site last night. You use this...whatever it is you do...as a detective?"

Sherlock smiles, just a little before he turns back to the window. "Yes, I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world; I invented the job. The police call me when they're out of their depth.” As if one cue, Sherlock watches a police car park on the street outside the flat. Excellent. “Like now."

Lestrade makes a racket on his way up the stairs, bursting into the room a mere moment later. Unobservant as always, he doesn't seem to notice John.

"A fourth suicide?” Sherlock asks. “Something's different about this one."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did. It's in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?"

"Not in the police car; I'll be right behind."

A flash of relief passes over Lestrade's face, a bare moment's worth, and the he nods and turns to leave.

As soon as Lestrade is out of earshot, Sherlock lets out a laugh because the case - oh, this case - such a promise in the puzzle. Novel. He whips around to grab his coat, and an idea occurs to him. John. John, back from war with his limp. John, who lives and breathes on adrenaline, Sherlock can tell. A man who cares for his daughter by day and dreams of battle by night. He longs for danger the way Sherlock longs for cases (once longed for cocaine), and it’s marvelous.

Sherlock has a plan. One which may just work.

"Come along, John."

"What?"

"Complicated case. Lives at stake. I need an assistant."

"You want me. To come to a crime scene with you."

He pulls on his coat and walks a circle around John, as if inspecting. "You're an army doctor. Seen a lot of action? Violent deaths?"

"Yes, but I can’t just run off for the night; I need to get back to Abby..."

"You have a babysitter, use her. Or would you rather spend another night staring at the wall of your bedsit? _Come with me_."

"All right! Okay. Yes. God, yes."

Sherlock grins.


	3. Chapter 3

John is certifiably mad. Must be, to follow Sherlock to a crime scene, of all places. They take a taxi from Baker Street, and when John takes out his phone to text Clara that he'll be late, Sherlock takes it, rattles off evidence of Harry's drinking. John's not sure what to think, stuck between awe and apprehension.

But John finds that he can't look away. Sherlock is as beautiful, as magnetic, as he was all those years ago. John remembers it well, how the strange alpha knew everything, even then. He remembers the depths of his heat, the feel of Sherlock inside him again and again. The grip of Sherlock's hands, the fullness of his knot. Just recalling it is enough for arousal to coil lightly through him now.

But as much as John would like to simply revel in the memory of what they once shared, he has one much more important concern.

When he'd discovered he was pregnant, he'd gone back to that club, over and over again for weeks. There was never any sign of the alpha, and after awhile, John gave up looking. Resigned to single parenthood, he didn’t bother searching again, though it always pained him not to know. When he was shot, pleading with God for his own life, he wondered, regretted. John thought of Abby, wished he’d found the alpha, that there was someone else who might - just might - have cared for her if he’d died.

And then he followed Mike Stamford into that lab at Bart's and met Sherlock Holmes, and oh, John would've recognized that alpha's smell anywhere. Since then, his head feels full of questions he doesn’t dare ask - _who_ are _you? how do you do figure out these things? what makes you tick?_

_What do you want to do about Abby?_

Before John can figure out how to voice any of that, the cab lets them off. Then there's the crime scene. The dead pink lady with her affairs, the police who look to John with confusion and pity, and Sherlock's lightning-fast deductions. It's over nearly as quick as it began; Sherlock whirls out in that ridiculously dramatic coat of his, and John's left to limp back downstairs on his own.

When he asks Sergeant Donovan where he can get a cab, she looks at him almost sadly. She calls Sherlock a psychopath like she's doing John a favor. It takes all of John's vast reserves of self-control not to snap back at her, and he's not sure why he so deeply wants to defend a man he doesn't really know.

He finds his way to the main road, and that's when the night takes an even stranger tone.

There are ringing phones that follow him, a threatening voice on the other end of the line. There are cameras that turn a blind eye and a mysterious black car that comes to fetch him. The driver opens the door for him, and John stands at attention, unafraid.

"Don't get into that car." It's Sherlock, of course it is, and John is sure he'll never know how Sherlock can appear so silently next to him. Sherlock sticks his head into the still-open car door and says, "Tell Mycroft that he can sod off!"

Then Sherlock sweeps away down the pavement, and John gives a little shrug to the driver before following. He catches up after a moment and asks, "What the hell was all that about?"

"Doesn't matter. Ignore him." Another payphone rings as they pass by. Sherlock lets out an angry snarl before picking it up. "I said _sod off_." He rings off and starts back down the street again. That's when John notices the suitcase.

"Sherlock, is that the pink lady's case?"

"No, I just want to attract extra attention tonight. _Of course_ it's her case! Oh, and do I need to mention that I'm _not_ the murderer?"

"No, I didn't think-"

"Why not? It would've been a logical assumption. And you’ve been wondering for years what Abby’s other father would be like. We’ve only just met again; it would be only natural to worry."

"I wasn't worried," John says, willing his expression to show the full force of his sincerity. "How'd you find it?"

"This case is noticeable, especially for a man. You can see the people here doing double takes. The killer would want to get rid of it, and quickly. Didn’t take me long to find the right skip.”

“You got all that because you realized the case had to be pink?”

“Of course it had to be pink. Now, I need you to send a text for me. These words exactly...”

* * *

Sherlock’s plan turns out to involve having John text the murderer, and then having a nice dinner. Which is not a date, no matter what the owner might think. John tries to make small talk, the typical getting-to-know you things, but it’s far more awkward than he could’ve expected. In the end, all he manages to find out is that Sherlock’s single, which isn’t a surprise. John’s fumbling attempts at conversation are thankfully put to an end when a cab appears.

John is mad, well and truly, because he follows Sherlock through streets and alleys, over rooftops. _Welcome to London_ , indeed.

They stumble into 221 Baker Street, giggling and out of breath, still high on their madcap chase. John’s body thrums with it, the adrenaline, the promise of things that may come. He hasn’t felt that way since Afghanistan; before that, it was the first time he’d held Abby. It’s the kind of heady rush he’s craved his whole life.

When Angelo comes to the door, bearing the pink case and John’s cane, Sherlock grins, wide and true, and John can’t help but mirror it. A thought comes into John’s head then, unbidden: _this is the second thing Sherlock has given me_.

It’s that thought which John clings to not an hour later when he looks out a window to find Sherlock putting a poison pill to his lips. John holds fast to that feeling, to this horrible and wonderful rollercoaster of a night that they’ve shared. His uncertainty is gone, or at least it doesn’t matter right now; whatever may come, he won’t let this brilliant madman die tonight.

John’s hands are steady and his leg doesn’t ache.

He aims the gun.

* * *

They giggle again, after. That’s the only word for it: _giggle_. John’s just killed a not-nice man, and Sherlock’s almost killed himself, but they laugh anyway, at least until a black car pulls up, letting out a bloke whose presence makes Sherlock scowl.

“Another case cracked, I see,” the man says. “How very public-spirited of you.”

The man’s voice sounds familiar, and it takes John only a moment to place it - the payphones, earlier. Sherlock’s response confirms it: “How many times must I tell you to _piss off_?”

“Always at least once more. Now, Doctor Watson, I’m very pleased to meet you.” The man holds out a hand in greeting.

John looks at him with disapproval. “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

An expression passes over the man’s face, just briefly, something like how you might look at a stupid pet who has finally mastered a trick. “Ah, yes, I’m sorry for any...inconvenience I may have caused you earlier tonight. I merely wished to meet you face to face. And to ascertain your connection to my brother.”

“Brother?”

“Yes, my brother,” Sherlock says, disdain clear in his tone. “This is Mycroft, the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.”

“I occupy a _minor_ position in the British Government...”

“He _is_ the British Government. Now, I’ll say it again, kindly _piss off_. You can kidnap John tomorrow; we’re going for dinner now.”

Sherlock stalks off towards the street, and John, spurred on by visions of more murderous cabbies, turns to follow. He pauses for a moment though, and looks back at Mycroft to say, “Actually, I don’t think a kidnapping will fit into my schedule for tomorrow. How about we put it off indefinitely? Ta.”

* * *

Sherlock leads them to a small Chinese place a few blocks from his flat, chattering happily about door handles and fortune cookies all the way. The food’s as good as promised, and Sherlock actually eats with gusto now that the case is through. John follows suit, listens raptly on as Sherlock describes some of his past cases. It’s amazing, all of it, and a quiet part of John dreads the moment it will come to an end.

But end it must, and when their table is cleared, John says, “I should be getting home, get some sleep before I have to pick Abby up from Clara’s.”

“You can stay at mine,” Sherlock offers. “The upstairs bedroom is already set up.”

“I don’t want to impose...”

“Nonsense. Come on.”

They pay for their meal and step back out into the freezing night. Side by side, they walk half the distance in a companionable silence, before Sherlock finally brings up the issue John’s been avoiding.

“Abby. What’s she like?”

“She’s...clever. Now I know where she gets it from.” John flashes a smile. “Inquisitive. Last week she wanted to know all about cats. This week it’s boats. She likes to read, learned early. I left for a tour and she’d barely been talking.” John’s smile turns rueful. “I came back, and she was reading whole books aloud. Not War and Peace, granted, but knocked me for a loop that she’d learned all that while I was away. She behaves herself, mostly. Can’t get through childhood without a few tantrums, I suppose. She’s usually quiet, though. A bit shy sometimes. Her birthday’s soon - February eighteenth.”

John ends his recitation as they arrive outside the flat. Sherlock lets them in, they shed their coats, and John takes a moment to enjoy being able to go up the stairs without limping. It’s shortlived, though, because the minute they make it into the flat proper, there’s something he has to say.

“Look, Sherlock, I meant what I said earlier; I’m not expecting anything, in regards to Abby. We can talk a bit, I can leave in the morning, and we don’t have to see each other again, if that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Honestly? No. But I’ll accept your decision, whatever it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply right away. He simply stands there, looking at John, like he’s considering. John doesn’t shy away from the gaze, doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t let himself hope.

Finally, Sherlock says, “Move in with me.”

“What?”

“Have your ears stopped working? I said _move in with me_. We’re both looking for a flatmate; it’s only logical.”

“I can’t move in with you.”

“Why not?” Sherlock seems genuinely confused. “There’s an unfinished space upstairs; Mrs Hudson won’t mind turning it into another bedroom if I pay for it. There’s enough space here. And...I’m not opposed to being involved. In Abby’s life.” Sherlock looks away, as if this is something he’s pained to admit. “It’s the most convenient solution all around.”

John tries to imagine it, then. Living here, with Sherlock. The three of them a family, albeit a little nontraditional. It’s more than he’d ever thought to want. And yet, he can’t picture Sherlock with Abby, not quite. He doesn’t know if that racing mind of Sherlock’s can slow enough to care for a child. There’s so much that John doesn’t know.

It’s that thought that makes him say, “I can’t. Not yet. I want you to be a part of her life, I really do. But it’s too soon, all right? You should get to know her first. Spend some time with her, see how you get on. And if it works out after a while, and you still want it, _then_ I’ll think about moving in. And only if you clean this place up. Keeping body parts in the kitchen isn’t child-safe.”

Sherlock takes a moment, and John can nearly see the gears turning in that big brain of his. “That’s...acceptable,” Sherlock says. “When do we start?”

“I’ll text you after I pick up Abby tomorrow. We can work out a time for you to come over.” John yawns, wide and sudden. “Okay, that’s my limit for tonight; I’m absolutely knackered. If you can point me to that bedroom...”


End file.
